


French Is Better

by voleuse



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-12
Updated: 2004-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-06 04:24:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She'd prefer a salon.  Almost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	French Is Better

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place sometime after "Billy." Headings taken from Urban Decay's nail enamel line.

_i. burnout_

Some days, the phone doesn't stop ringing. Cordelia can barely walk away from her desk before that obnoxious piece of plastic hails her again, heralding a poltergeist, or a werewolf attack, or an infestation of tiny demons.

She takes the messages, passes them on to Angel, and the jobs get done. The poltergeist gets exorcised, the werewolf gets caged for three days, and the tiny demons get stomped on like grapes in that _I Love Lucy_ episode that always plays on Nick at Nite.

But do the results ever show up, paycheck-wise? No.

Some days, Cordelia eyes her chipped nail polish between phone calls, sighs, and decides yet again that the savings at Rite-Aid aren't worth the inevitable heartache.

_ii. asphyxia_

Some days, the phone doesn't ring at all. There are no ghouls, ghosts, or ghastly creatures to be defeated; not, at least, by Angel Investigations. Neither, unfortunately, are there auditions to be attended, because on those rare days, Cordelia doesn't bother to come to the office at all.

So, on those quiet days, Cordelia sits, stares at her nail polish, and tries not to scream from boredom. Wesley, or Gunn, or Angel, or Fred will often stop to talk to Cordelia, each random in his or her own way, which is not Cordelia's speed at all. Sometimes, she just eavesdrops on their conversations about prophesied ascensions, or demon languages, or astrophysics, or violent sports.

Some days, the testosterone count at the Hyperion, Fred notwithstanding, is suffocating.

One day, Cordelia can't take it anymore. She scribbles a note that she's taking the day off, grabs her purse, and walks out the door.

_iii. metropolitan_

Los Angeles is the biggest pond that she's ever thought to swim in, and it suits Cordelia just fine. Four blocks past the Hyperion, she realizes she should have attempted to borrow Angel's car, but she hates parking anyway, so she walks and walks until the graffiti disappears, the sidewalks are clean, and the shops look the way they used to before her father got that memorable visit from the IRS.

She idles in front of a salon and imagines she has an appointment for a manicure.

_iv. pipe dream_

Just as she's reaching the point of her fantasy when she requests French tips, the door to the salon swings open, and Lilah Morgan, Vicious Bitch, is standing in the doorway, rent-a-lackey thanking her for her generous tip. Lilah's ignoring the stylist, her eyes focused on Cordelia.

Cordelia manages not to look at Lilah's nails, despite a burning desire to find out how good the stylist really is. "Lilah."

"Cordelia." A BMW pulls up to the curb, and another person eager for Lilah's money hops out of the car, hands Lilah the keys, takes the bill from her hand as if it was gold.

Lilah slides into the driver's seat like a knife into its sheath. With the windows rolled down, Cordelia can hear the _click_ as Lilah's seat belt snaps into place, and the invitation in Lilah's voice as she leans over and opens the passenger's side door.

"Well?" Lilah raises an eyebrow. "Are you coming or not?"

_v. id_

Lilah explains that she couldn't, of course, get Cordelia into the salon for her own appointment, as they only accept clients who are household names, or could have them eaten by demon wasps. They're quite exclusive.

Cordelia contemplates demon wasps long enough to almost miss being invited to Lilah's apartment.

"...and she gave me a spa and pedicure kit, which is ridiculous but expensive, or maybe ridiculously expensive, but it's no fun doing your own manicure, so you might as well try it out."

Cordelia's startled enough not to respond with the standard, "But...you're evil."

"Spa" has always been the magic word for the Chase family, anyway. That, and "tax shelter."

_vi. twisted_

One tiny bottle of aromatherapy and a suggestive foot massage later, Cordelia's slung across one of Lilah's dining room chairs, her hands poised on the table while Lilah applies a second coat of ruby red to her right thumbnail.

Lilah's foot is braced between Cordelia's knees, and Cordelia's having a tough time keeping still, what with the relaxation and the pampering and the impressive amount of cleavage she's privileged to see as Lilah bends forward to stare at Cordelia's cuticles.

And she really, really shouldn't be thinking these things, what with Lilah's unfortunate habit of trying to kill her every few weeks, but really, who is she kidding?

"Now," Lilah says, sliding the nail polish across the table, sliding out of her chair, and sliding a hand up Cordelia's thigh, "try not to touch anything. It takes a while for the polish to dry."

_vi. perversion_

Cordelia curses the high-quality, slow-drying nail polish with all the obscenities she's heard Faith use, because she wants, more than anything, to bury her hands in Lilah's hair and force her to stop being a damn tease and fuck her already.

Lilah's been circling around the issue, so to speak, for too long, though it could be only minutes, but it feels like months to Cordelia's overheated skin. It's like being trapped in a room without air conditioning in the middle of May, like a classroom or an office, and that reminds her that she needs to talk to Angel about getting some climate control for the hotel, because it's going to be unbearable when summer hits, and oh God, Angel.

"God," Cordelia mutters, palms flat against the table, thighs clenching around Lilah's head. "Angel would kill me if he knew."

"Angel, huh?" Lilah pulls back her head for a second. "Tell me more."

"What do I look like," Cordelia growls, "your maid?" It's not the snappiest comeback, but it's the best she can manage as Lilah's thumb flicks against her clit, feather-quick, and Cordelia bucks her hips, bites back a moan.

Lilah smirks. "Would he punish you? Or," she ducks her head down, licks a stripe up Cordelia's inner thigh, "would he come for me?"

_vii. o_

After a lengthy, vehement description of how, exactly, Angel would torture Lilah for torturing Cordelia like this, Lilah finally brings her off, and Cordelia can't help but wonder if her tongue is this glib in the courtroom, because if so, Lilah's worth whatever Wolfram &amp; Hart pays her.

Which, of course, only reminds Cordelia that she's spent the last hour and a half as a prelude to fucking evil. As Lilah rises from her crouch between Cordelia's legs, swiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Cordelia can practically _feel_ the quip of derision aimed in her direction.

She doesn't want to hear it.

So she reaches out, buries her finally-dry nails in Lilah's scalp, and drags her closer until their lips mash together, and Cordelia revels in the taste of quality lipstick just as much Lilah's surprised yelp.

Shoves at Lilah's hips until Lilah's balanced on the table, and Cordelia yanks Lilah's oh-so-expensive thong down, kneels, and shows Lilah that fucking the forces of good is just as fun as vice versa.


End file.
